


Hotline Miami: A Novelization

by Handel



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Game)
Genre: 80's, Crime, Insanity, Novelization, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:15:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handel/pseuds/Handel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mysterious message on his answering machine and a package with a comical rooster mask inside, a man finds himself being forced to murder countless thugs. He doesn't have a cause for his actions. The blood is on his hands, but the blame is on the masks that he wears. He has no idea who he is and is haunted by three masked individuals giving him cryptic taunts about who he is and what he is doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phonecalls

**Author's Note:**

> This is a novelization of the popular indie game, Hotline Miami, that was released in 2012. I plan on following the story of the game while adding in some fan fiction to flesh it out more. I want it to be action packed but also drama filled to. I hope everyone who reads enjoys it. Cheers! Feedback is highly appreciated.

Hot and muggy Miami. This is how it felt every night, but the room was stuffier than usual. Crashes of thunder echoed into the pitch dark room. All he could see was black. He reached a hand into the abyss searching for something tangible. After some shuffling he felt the touch of a door knob. With little hesitation he barged through the door. Light finally reached him, but only neon colors of pink, yellow, and green. A careless strobe light flashed about, sometimes in second intervals, sometimes longer. A slow bass guitar played long, eerie strums on the record player that lay on the glass coffee tables in front of three recliners. All three seats were occupied. In one sat the frame of a woman in nothing but a green tank top and pink panties, her head, however, was masked by the head of a horse. The horse was emotionless and fake, made out of rubber. The Horse was locked on him. She spoke with a familiar voice that he could not put a face to. “And who do we have here?” She asked. He looked down at the hardwood floor and watched a cockroach scurry around his shoes. He brought his hands up to his face and twisted his wrists, inspecting his palms, the back of his hands, his fingernails. He was white, he thought, but he looked like an array of colors with the lights in the room. Who was he? He couldn't think of answers, only questions. “Oh you don’t know who you are?” The Horse chimed up again. He looked back up to her, confused.

  
“Maybe we should leave it that way.” She added. The man in the middle seat began to speak now. “But I know you.” The man was in a maroon varsity jacket and jeans, his head was that of a rooster. The Rooster stood up and spoke more authoritatively. “Look at my face. We've met before, haven’t we?” The Rooster was in the same exact outfit as him. The same jacket, jeans, and shoes. The Rooster sat back down and the man in the seat on the right began. He was dressed in a white suit with a blue dress shirt underneath. He was an owl. He began to cower in his recliner and yell, “I don’t know you! Why are you here? You’re no guest of mine!” The Owl began sobbing as the Horse began speaking, “Do you really want to reveal who you are? Knowing oneself means acknowledging one's actions, and as of lately you've done some terrible things.” Everyone spoke so fast it was confusing for him. His mind was almost dead as he stared into the fake eyes of the animals.

“You don’t remember me? I’ll give you a clue.” The Rooster got up again and took a step forward.

“Does April the 3rd mean anything to you? I believe that was the day of our first encounter.” His eyes widened.

“You look like you might be remembering something.”


	2. Prelude

The alarm rang it’s robotic beeping. He woke up in his room. He was in his bed, he wasn’t under the covers and was fully dressed already. He turned in the bed and reached over to the nightstand and clicked the ringing off. He checked the time on the digital clock. 9:00 PM, April 3rd, 1989. He got himself up and sat at the edge of the bed. The television in the room was static. He stood up and walked over to the TV and hit the rewind button on the VHS player that sat on top of the TV. He waited for the tape to rewind. His room was average of a man his age. Large band and movie posters, an NES and game cartridges strewn about the room. Typical, ordinary. Once the tape was fully rewinded, he ejected it. The device spat out a copy of First Blood. He put the tape back in its rental case with a flashy logo saying “VHS Palace” with the movie title in black at the bottom. His rent on the tape was about to expire, he might as well return it.

He walked out through kitchen to the living room, tape in hand. Next to the couch lay an end table with a black telephone resting. The machine blinked red, indicating a voicemail. He approached it and picked up the phone, pressing a button on the machine. It beeped and the cassette tape began rolling. The answering machine began speaking, “Hi, this is Tim from the bakery. The cookies that you ordered should be delivered by now. A list of ingredients are included, make sure you read them carefully!” The phone clicked off. He put it down and walked towards the kitchen. He placed a hand on the door of the apartment and felt the wood. He peered into the peephole of the door. Nothing. He shifted around with the door locks for a bit before opening the door and hitting a light brown box. It was wrapped around with tape, no mailing label. He bent down and picked it up. He shook it and felt something big moving around. It wasn’t that heavy, it felt hollow for the most part. He walked back inside and placed the box on the table. After shutting the door quickly he acquired a pair of scissors. Using one side to slice the tape. In the box was a rooster mask and a note. He grasped the mask and stared into it’s black eyes. Dark, but see through. He set the mask down and read the note. “The target is a briefcase. Discretion is of the essence. Leave target at point F-32, inside the dumpster. Failure is not an option. We’ll be watching you. -50 Blessings” The note also came with a street name. Which led him to a subway station.

He sat in his Delorean, looking down at the rooster mask in his lap. The mask was rather cartoonish, with rubber feathers and the red comb on it’s head flailed around when it was moved. Even the wattles dangled in a silly manner. One deep breath and he put the mask over his head. Richard got up out of the car and slammed the door. With heavy breathing under his mask, he walked up and opened the subway door. He immediately came face to face to a pale white man. He had a broad chest, probably worked out daily. He was dressed in a white suit with a blue dress shirt underneath. His head shined as it was shaved clean. His blue eyes grew black as he turned and faced Richard. “What the fuck?” He grimly mumbled in a blatant Russian accent. The Russian pushed Richard into the wall after he stepped inside. The man pulled a switchblade from his pocket and held it on Richard’s bare neck. “You think you’re fucking funny, kid?” He yelled. “You’ll get your ass killed out here wearing that shit! What do you think you’re doing?” The Russian got no response, other than the breathing behind the mask. The commotion caused another man to step out from a bathroom in the subway.

“Evan, the hell are you doing? The fuck is that?” The new Russian asked.

“I don’t know. This jackass just came right in like he owned the place.”

“Well fuckin’ kill him!”

Richard noticed that the man holding him down had an earring in his ear lobe, pure gold. He had let his guard down since the other walked in. Richard striked. Swiftly he brought his hand up and grasped the man's earring. He tugged hard and the piece of jewelry tore out of his lobe. The Russian yelled as he was yanked to the ground and blood spurted out of his ear. The switchblade was taken into the hands of Richard. Quickly, Richard lunged at the second man and jammed the blade into him three times, letting blood spit onto his jacket, before letting the blade go inside him. The wounded man fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the floor. Richard turned around and stared at the other one. He was holding his ear, obviously in immense pain. Richard stepped towards him, he began to get to get up, but it was futile. Before he knew it Richard was on top of him. He began to curse some Russian as him but the language was interrupted when Richard’s blood soaked fist connected to his face. The clash of knuckle on cheek echoed through the station. Richard then picked his head up and smashed his skull into the tile floors. The man was dead by now but Richard kept smashing it in until the blood in the back of his head flooded onto the floor.

Richard got up and inspected what he had caused. The other corpse had a pistol sticking out of his pants. Richard picked it up and tightened his grip on it. It was a Makarov pistol. Brief speaking could be heard upstairs. Richard walked towards the stairs, then back at the scene. He felt some nostalgia, almost, for what he was doing. Like he had done it before. He brushed the thought away and ascended upstairs. He unloaded the clip of the pistol and inspected the rounds. It was a full clip. He slid the clip back into the gun and pulled back the hammer. He took a turn up the stairs and saw two men in mid conversation. They turned immediately to see Richard, who raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. Two shots later they were both on the ground, twitching, half-dead.

There was a static silence, a hesitation. Richard didn’t move. Some creaks of hardwood floor cracked and interrupted the silent phase. Richard kept his Makarov raised with two hands. One around the grip and trigger, the other on the bottom of his hand. He heard the sound of another pistol click, ready to fire. Richard was standing in a waiting room of sorts. There were seats lined around the room. After some waiting, he saw a bald head peek from the corner, then disappear again. Richard kept his gun raised and moved it towards the doorway. A yell was heard and a man emerged from the doorway, gun in hand. He began to shoot wildly and Richard dove behind the seats. The seats were hit and pieces of foam blew up into the air. Richard got back up into a crouch.

“Hey, asshole! Those were my friends you killed! My god damn friends! Well let me tell you, you’re dead!” The man yelled.

Richard popped up from the seats, aimed, and shot. He hit the guy directly in the chest. He felled backwards into the doorway. When his body hit the floor, stomping started. A group was running right for Richard. The clacking of shoes got louder and louder. Out of the doorway, one by one, came four mad Russians. They wielded knives and baseball bats.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

They fell as they came in. The last one still charged forward and the Makarov clicked empty. Richard took the pistol by the barrel and flicked his wrist. The pistol flew directly into the Russian’s face, knocking him down. Richard picked up a bat and brought it to the Russian’s head. He slammed it down hard. There was no one else in sight.

After walking through the doorway he had been battling against and into the next room, he saw a man in a tan trenchcoat. He was pale with dark hair and held a briefcase to his side. He was the target from the note. Richard shoved him to the ground and used the briefcase as his tool. He slammed the bottom of the briefcase into his face repeatedly until his face was mushed and unrecognizable. Richard picked up the briefcase by the handle and departed from the station. When he reached his car, he tossed the suitcase in the passenger seat. He gripped the steering wheel and hit the gas. He removed the rooster mask and tossed it on top of the briefcase.

He kept driving past lights, bars, gas stations, and grocery stores until he came to the street address on his note. He double checked, then took himself and the briefcase out into the alley. He walked past a couple of flattened cardboard boxes and a barrel of fire. Someone was living here, apparently. Homeless probably. He kept walking until he found the dumpster he was looking for. He looked around, suspicious that he was being watched. He hesitantly opened up the dumpster and dropped the briefcase in.

“Who’s there? I can hear you! I know you’re there!” He heard around the corner.

He stepped out from the corner to see a dirty man. Dark complex, dirty clothes, long greasy hair under a stained beanie. The bum held a baseball bat with a hostile stance. He was the man living here. The bum looked at him, fearful, for he was blood stained. He had it all over his jacket and panted. Even more so on his hands. The bum raised his bat and charged. He kicked the bum onto the ground, picked him up by the hair and shoved him into the brick wall. He began strangling him with his hands around his neck. He tightened his grip as hard as he could. He heard the sound of air just scraping his throat as he yearned for air. Before he knew it, he had suffocated the man. He let go and let the bum drop down. He began walked towards the car before he came to a dreadful realization. He turned to see the pale faced hobo again, who now had dead eyes wide open. He thought back to what he had done at the station. All of the images sifting through his head. He fell to his knees, he felt weak. He felt odd, especially in his stomach. Warmth rose in him until he vomited onto the concrete. He wiped some of the saliva off his face with his jacket. He recollected himself and stumbled to the car. He began driving and stopped at a convenience store. 

Inside, Ben Smith clicked the register open. A customer granted him a few dollars. They carried a plastic bag filled with some sodas. Ben placed the money into the register and filed out some change to get him. The customer spoke up, “Hey can I get a pack of kles on his face. He had bright green eyes with long orange hair that fell to his shoulders. A large beard adorned his look as well. He pulled a pack of cigs from the rack behind him and slid it across the Camel’s as well?” Ben smiled towards him and responded, “Hey no problem man! I’ve got you.” Ben was fair skinned, his face sprinkled with freckles. The customer placed it in the bag with the sodas. “That’ll be one sixty seven, friend.” Ben stated. The customer paid gladly and walked out. He came into the convenience store. He wasn’t wearing his varsity jacket, it was instead tied around his waist and fell to cover his stains on his pants. He simply wore a teal T-Shirt. Ben hadn’t recognized him yet. He walked into the bathroom and washed his hands. He watched the faded red water flee into the holes of the sink. His hands were still pink, but it was less obvious than before. He walked out of the bathroom and went to the freezer section and picked out a pack of beer. He approached the counter and placed the pack down. He kept his head down, avoiding recognition. He failed. “Hi there, man! Haven’t seen you around. Thought something might have happened to you.” Ben said. He forced a chuckle and greeted him. “You seemed really down over losing your girlfriend. Don’t remember seeing you after that.” A silence grew. He kept looking down at his shoes, which had streaks of red on them. Ben stared at him with an eyebrow raised. “Maybe we should talk about something else. So, out for a midnight snack are you?” He began to go for his wallet but Ben interrupted him by saying “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s on the house. It’s been good to see you! Have a nice night.” He nodded and took the beer. He got back into his car and drove off home. He needed to get drunk to forget about this entire night. His head felt heavy already.


End file.
